


we'll never be afraid again

by stellahibernis



Series: say my name [4]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Captain America: The Winter Soldier Compliant, M/M, memory recovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-11
Updated: 2014-10-11
Packaged: 2018-02-20 17:54:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2437721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stellahibernis/pseuds/stellahibernis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Things change in 70 years, both cities and people, and while Brooklyn has managed to hang on to its name, he's now slowly claiming his own back.</i>
</p>
<p>Bucky getting closer to himself, and also to Steve.</p>
            </blockquote>





	we'll never be afraid again

**Author's Note:**

> Set in the [say my name](http://archiveofourown.org/series/149190) -verse, and references to the other stories, but probably works on its own as well.

The sky above is dimming, changing from the even grey of November to yellowish darkness lit by the city. He's sitting on the balcony smoking, watching the exhaled little clouds disappear in the wind. It's a familiar thing, smoking outside in the evening, listening to the noises of Brooklyn. Only now it's an actual balcony with actual chairs instead of a rickety contraption made of rusting metal, and the noises are as foreign to him as is the view. Only the name has stayed the same. Things change in 70 years, both cities and people, and while Brooklyn has managed to hang on to its name, he's now slowly claiming his own back.

He's been sitting out for hours, despite the cold that the relatively sheltered balcony cannot ward off. He rotates the artificial joint at his left shoulder, trying to get blood flowing more freely. The metal is insulated where it connects to him to prevent frostbites. Not that anyone cared about discomfort, only that the joint wouldn't work if the flesh and metal didn't connect properly. It still feels cold, and to this day he isn't sure if it's only in his head or if he actually can feel cold. All he knows that the cold has seeped into his bone by now, numbing his left side. He doesn't go inside.

There are days when he can't stand the constant feeling of cold, when he wants to just wrap himself in several blankets and drink cup after cup of strong hot tea. It's never enough, and on those days he thinks he doesn't remember how it felt like being warm. Other days, like this, he craves the cold. There is a strange kind of piece, kind of nothingness he finds when he lets the cold take hold of him, starting from his left arm. This comes from all the times he spent in cryogenic sleep, and sometimes he wants to hate it. He doesn't want to need anything that stems from that time. He wants to root the need out of his mind, to banish it forever, but he can't. That's how his life is now, even if it's been more than year and a half since the last time he was awoken from stasis.

He's figured out a long time ago why he has this longing for cold. It's a coping mechanism for when he feels too much, as if all the emotions he has won't fit inside his chest. It's overwhelming after so long of feeling almost nothing but physical sensations. It happens with good things as well as bad. Today he's not quite sure what kind of a day it is. Not a good one, that's for sure, but not one of his bad ones either. Melancholy, that's the word he guesses.

The door to the balcony is closed, but he can still hear the apartment door open. He doesn't move from where he sits as he recognizes the barely audible steps moving about. After a while the glass door opens, Steve steps out and drops into the other chair. He looks tired, strange and formal in his black suit. The jacket hangs open and he's taken off the tie Bucky saw him loop around his neck early in the morning. Steve leans back in the chair, eyes closed. He's got a tired furrow between his brows, like he sometimes gets when he's sad (or worried but now it's definitely sad), and Bucky wants to reach and smooth it out. He doesn't, though. Casually touching each other is not a thing they do these days. Neither one of them speaks in a long while.

"I thought you’d stay overnight." It's Bucky who finally breaks the silence, unusually. He doesn't speak much these days, it has become a habit during the years spent as the Winter Soldier when he only spoke if necessary. Normally it's Steve who keeps up the conversation, and he sometimes joins in.

"Yeah, well. It feels weird with all the people there. Peggy's family is nice and they wanted me to stay longer, but I don't know. They knew a different Peggy than I did, in a way. No one else remembers her as she was then, and now she's gone. It's difficult to talk about her with them."

"You loved her." It's a statement, not a question, even though he feels like there is a question here, he just can't quite grasp it. There's still this giant hole in the middle of his jumbled memories that he can't even begin to fill. This, the fact that Steve loved Peggy, is right there at the edge of that hole. It's something he sort of remembers, there are fleeting images of her in a red dress, Steve in uniform, them looking at each other with no thought for anything or anyone else. It's true, he knows it's true, and yet there's something that rings false about the finality of that statement. They've never before talked about this, he's never asked about it, not even when the news of her passing came.

Now Steve opens his eyes and turns to look at him. For a moment there's that strangely wistful expression he sometimes has when he looks at Bucky. He doesn't know what it means. "Yeah, yeah I did. Only, not in the way you mean, I don’t think. Not quite." He doesn't elaborate, but now that they're talking, Bucky can't just drop it, because how else could it have been.

"All the books say that if you had made it through the war, the two of you would have…" He doesn't know how to finish the thought. Somehow putting it into words is difficult.

"Well, maybe. Or maybe not, all things considered. The writers of those books don't know everything, and it doesn't really matter anyway, because there was the plane, and now we are here."

They both fall silent, and he thinks he didn't really understand what Steve was saying. It makes no sense to him, but Steve doesn't seem to want to talk about it anymore than he already had. Him being so reserved is odd, because usually Steve is willing to talk about anything and everything about their past, sometimes more than he really wants to know, because he can see how different he used to be, and how much Steve cared about the person he was then. But it has been a tough day for Steve, so maybe he's just tired.  He lets it go

***

Later, when he can't fall asleep no matter how he tries to even out his breathing, he silently pads around the apartment. Part of it is an automatic ritual; making sure that everything is fine, that they’re safe is calming. The door to Steve's room is slightly ajar, and on a whim he pushes it open and walks to Steve's bedside. He doesn't try being particularly silent here, but Steve doesn't stir. He’s forgotten to close the curtains all the way, and a strand of moonlight falls on the bed.

Steve has drawn the covers tightly around his neck, only half of his head peeking out. In the moonlight his hair has turned silver, as if for a moment all the years he has lived are visible. He sleeps the same way he always did, guarding himself against the cold, even if he doesn't need to anymore, being the human furnace with supersoldier metabolism.

The memory slams into him sharp and clear, as if he had lived it just yesterday. They're in a dark room, lying on a rickety bed that's really too small for two adults, especially since neither one of them is particularly small. It's wartime and the room is cold, but he doesn't mind, because hes leaning his back to Steve's chest. An arm is thrown around him and he feels the steady, warm breaths at his neck. He's not cold. He can't quite remember how that felt.

He staggers surfacing from the memory and balances himself against the wall. Steve snuffles a bit in his sleep, and extends one of his hands towards him from beneath the covers, relaxed and open, as if an invitation. He extends his own hand but stops before his fingers touch Steve's. He can feel the warmth radiating from the skin only a hairs breadth away from his. He's not quite sure why he stops, only that he knows Steve would wake if he touched him. He doesn't know if he wants that to happen or not, doesn't know what he would do.

Thing is, Steve doesn't touch him unless it's necessary, not usually, not anymore. There was that one time when they were about to take down a Hydra base that Steve had let his hand rest on his back for a bit. It had been a reflex, a remnant from when he used to do so during the war. He doubts that Steve even realised he did so. He himself doesn't touch Steve at all.

He feels like he's stuck there, not wanting to leave but he can't bring himself to wake Steve either. Finally he just sits down on the floor and leans his back to the bed. He doesn't fall asleep but perhaps he dreams.

***

It's light as a feather, the touch to his hair, and Steve's voice is heavy with sleep. "Buck? Is everything alright?"

He turns to look at Steve, and doesn't know how to answer. He thinks that he's better than he's been in ages and yet there's something not quite right. Steve doesn't pressure him, just looks at him, steadily like he sometimes does. Like he did on the helicarrier, barely conscious, after saying the words that finally punched through all the mind wipes. Bucky can't look away, and that's how they stay until he suddenly shivers.

"You're cold." It’s not a question.

And then, perhaps because he's still half asleep, perhaps because Bucky finally came to him, perhaps because it's just another night and he can't remember the reasons that have put the distance between them, Steve just lifts the covers, inviting him to the bed. There's really only one thing he can do. He climbs in, and after shifting a bit, they settle down with his head on Steve's chest, Steve's hand tangled in his hair. It feels natural, he doesn't feel confined at all, and he wonders why it has been so difficult all this time.

He drifts off listening to Steve's heartbeat; steady and strong, reassuring.

***

He wakes up and it takes him a moment to realise what is different. He feels warm, for the very first time that he can properly remember. He’s still lying half on top of Steve, cheek pressed to the nearly threadbare cotton of his t-shirt. And there is something else; memories neatly slotted in place, right where that awful hole used to be. It's not all back, but enough.

He remembers cold winter nights spent worrying, hand lightly resting on Steve's narrow chest, feeling how his heart labored. And later, other winter nights spent resting his head on Steve's chest like he does now, listening to the now strong heart, needing to make sure that he's just as healthy inside as out. He remembers lying in countless beds, legs tangled together, skin pressed to skin. He remembers strong arms cradling him, holding onto him like Steve never meant to let go.

He shifts a little to see Steve's face and finds him looking at him, a small content smile on his lips, no trace of sleep in his blue eyes that seem brighter and happier than he remembers ever seeing them. And now he knows what he sees in them, now he has a word for why his heart feels too big for its space every time he looks at Steve.

It's huge, it's wonderful, and it is also confusing.

"How could I forget this?" he asks, and isn't that the question. Why hadn't this, the most important thing, come back first? Why had it taken so long? He feels appalled, and shouldn't Steve be too? "Why didn't you tell me?"

"Because what happened to you, it's not something someone else can fix. You had to do it yourself, however long that took. And besides, it's not like it was completely gone. You might not have remembered how it was for us in the war, might not have remembered me, but that didn't matter. In the end, without even remembering your own name, you broke through the brainwashing and saved my life."

"You did that. When you said that. End of the line."

"No, didn't you listen, only you could save yourself. I could have said anything, but you needed to be there to respond to it, to break through. And you were. You didn't shoot me that time I was too shocked from recognizing you to defend myself. You dove into the river to drag me out. You did all these things when all their programming was against it. What else could that have been but love?"

And there it is, the name for this feeling that’s too big, too much to be contained. That feels like it's about to burst through him. Love. But maybe, now that he understands a bit at least, maybe it doesn't need to be contained.

"So you were content to just wait? For however long it might take?"

"Yes," Steve says with such an emphasis that it is difficult to continue arguing.

"But how could you be sure that it would come back?"

"I knew it would. And I was right, wasn’t I? You were always there for me, from when I was sick to the battlefield, you were always there. I knew you would come through, you were always so much more dependable than me at that. If I had just that one time been a bit stronger, this needn't have happened to you. I..."

"Don’t." They've had this conversation before, he knows how it goes. Steve still blames himself, and he doesn't want that now. Not when he finally remembers.

Steve looks like he might argue further, but apparently changes his mind and just tightens his arms around Bucky's waist. He lays his head back down on Steve's chest and lets the steady heartbeats calm him down. There are bits and pieces of memories that he needs to put back together, but he remembers lying almost like this, only on Steve's bare chest instead of the soft fabric in between them. He remembers other kinds of touches, tingling all over him, and it feels overwhelming even if it's just a memory. He grips the hem of Steve's shirt where his hand rest near his waistline.

"I don’t know how to…" In the months spent with Steve and their friends he's gotten better at expressing himself, but now he can't find words.

But Steve has also gotten better at understanding him, or perhaps it's just that they are finally truly finding each other, not needing to say everything out loud. He thinks that's how it used to be, communicating was much more than just talking for them. "I know. Don't worry, we have time to figure everything out."

It would be so easy to argue, to list all kinds of things that could come between them, all kinds of ways their world could come tumbling down. But he doesn't, because he finds himself believing Steve. All those years ago they did almost impossible things together, and perhaps the most impossible thing is that they are still here, together. In light of all this, he wants to believe they can handle everything thrown at them.

***

He wakes up from a nap one winter afternoon, and for a moment he doesn't open his eyes, just enjoys feeling warm under the blanket, the smell of coffee drifting from the kitchen. And there is a memory, surfacing somewhere from the hidden depths of his mind, clear and familiar.

It had been summer then, of his 21st year, and he was lying on his bed on a Sunday afternoon. The sweltering heat of the city had lessened a bit with the rain showers that had arrived just after midday. He's enjoying the familiar sounds, the rain against their windowsill, the faint sounds of their neighbors' lives through the walls. The scratch of pencil on paper.

The last remembered sound blends into the reality, because there it is, this little familiar sound he hasn't heard in decades. He opens his eyes, and there Steve is, sitting cross-legged on the floor with sketchbook and pencil, a tiny furrow of concentration formed between his brows. He remember dozens of times he's seen Steve sitting like that and drawing. The frail young boy, the slight man that always looked younger than his years, the familiar stranger in his uniform in London, Captain America in his blues somewhere in the European forests. Always with the same expression of intent concentration, regardless of their surroundings.

"I haven't seen you drawing since I came back," he says, and marvels at the fact he hadn't realized this earlier.

"Because I haven't. Nat gave me this book and pencils a bit after they found me, and I did draw one day." Steve flips back through the pages, and he can see they are filled with partial sketches, all in a chaotic jumble, not at all like his sketchbooks used to look like. "After that I just didn't feel like it. Not until now."

Steve goes back to drawing, still smiling. Bucky relaxes against the couch cushions, and it suddenly strikes him how this all feels so normal. He and Steve at home, no danger, no particular worries. Just another winter day. He thinks he can get used to this.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Look, it's something not miserable! 
> 
> And this was the last bit of this particular story, I'll wander off to others, although staying with these boys because apparently this is now my life.
> 
> Thank you for reading, everyone.
> 
> The title is from the Florence + the Machine song _Spectrum_ , keeping with the theme.


End file.
